Saturday, January 24, 2015

Book Review: Stephen King’s From a Buick 8

Much like the novel’s title object, Stephen King’s From
a Buick 8 sat on my shelf for many years. While I never stared at it and
assumed the superintendents position as the book possits, it traveled through
multiple moves without a glance. Typically a quick read, I tend to refer to
King when I need a good novel, one that flows by without deep literary
symbolism and interpretation. Something that can spark interest and excite
while keeping the pages turning. While From
a Buick 8 has merits, this book is a bit folksier than King’s typical works
and driven more by theme than events, as in this text was not quite what I was
expecting at the time.

Primarily written from the first person perspective of an
aging Pennsylvania State Trooper named Sandy, the text follows the mysterious
and strange events that surround a peculiar Buick the Troop branch took
possession of in bizarre circumstances: the owner drove it into a gas station,
asked for service, went to the bathroom, and never returned. While his absence
is not the mystery the text presents, this car not only appears invulnerable to
damage—one can scratch it and watch the paint regenerate—but also a source of
great energy. It emits light quakes that flash waves of purple, transports
strange creatures from another world, and is responsible for the disappearance of
at least three individuals, including its owner. Furthering the oddities, the
car is not built to spec and exists as more of a concept for its make year than
the real thing—nothing about the machine seems to add up.

Typical of a Stephen King thriller, the car seems to
breathe, seems to gnaw at the mind of the officers, and while standing as a beacon
of interest for the men, it is linked to the worldly death of many officers,
even if such occurrences exist more as hunches than anything else. Yet the narrative,
which hovers around the hodgepodge recounting of Buick experiences to young
Ned, the mourning son of a recently killed State Trooper who held an unhealthy fascination
with the Buick, and while the tales do hold merit, the central narrative does
not. Frankly, the narrative just kind of starts, plods along, and ends under
the assumption that everything will be alright, a fact that is atypical of
Stephen King’s creations.

While the tone is indicative of much of his later work,
where redemption and life reflection tend to ooze to the top, King spends too
much time in Sandy’s head offering too much cliché patter about the actions of
Ned and the boy’s reception to their story. In the end, while the book is a
decent read, it neither thrills nor fully enthralls. There is something here,
something that rings home, but that something may not be worth the four-hundred
pages.

Favorite Lines:

“I did, too. Sometimes there’s nothing to learn or no way to
learn it, or no reason to even try. I saw a movie once where this fellow
explained why he lit a candle in a church even though he wasn’t a very good
Catholic anymore. ‘You don’t fuck around with the infinite,’ he said. Maybe
that was the lesson we learned.”